Unscripted
by Evil Icing
Summary: When the spotlight shines and the curtain rises, lovers, much like truth and lies, are revealed for what they truly are... supporting roles in an even bigger production that is out of their control. Lana/Edgeworth.


**_Unscripted_**

* * *

"…to see you, Ms. Skye…"

She blinks herself out of her daydream, eyes rising to meet the nervous face of her security guard. He had spoken to her, apparently. She doesn't bother to ask him to repeat himself, piecing together on her own that she must have a visitor requesting her presence.

"I was under the assumption that visiting hours are over, and therefore, I will see _no visitors_ tonight."

The thought of her younger sister waiting in the visitor's area all alone makes Lana nauseous and defensive. She's decided she has not yet worked up the courage to face her. She doesn't deserve such a caring sister, and nor does Ema deserve the punishment of having to see her in such a disgraceful state. Not to mention the fact that Ema should be at home, studying for that upcoming chemistry exam she's talked endlessly about, as well as gearing down and getting ready for bed... although, she can't find it in herself to cast the blame necessary to act on her thoughts. For the moment, Ema's well-being is out of her hands; she'll just have to trust that she can take care of herself all on her own the next few days.

"It's, uh, not a visitor, _exactly,_ " he says, growing paler as she stares him down coldly. The guard is still quite scared of her; she inherently sees this as a good thing. However, he seems to be just as surprised as she is.

"If it's not a visitor, then why are you here bothering me?" She isn't sure if her words make her sound uninterested or just plain unfriendly.

"What I mean is...! I-it's a prosecutor, so I'm afraid you have no choice but to come with me... I-I'm sorry!"

A prosecutor, _at this hour_? Why didn't he just say so in the first place? She knows the trial will not be held tomorrow; even considering the circumstances, it's too soon. Still, she has her suspicions; it's no secret that since a detective is the victim, her punishment will be swift and unquestionable...

He waits. "Shall I… escort you?"

Lana feels her face begin to break from its mold, the tiniest bit of emotion peeking through the cracks in the expression she wears. Again, she has her suspicions. A particular prosecutor comes to mind, of course… one that she's tried hard to force out of her mind all day. He's no longer part of the plan, and because of that, she can't let herself stray from the role she's been given. Regardless of who might be here to visit her, she must remain the cold-blooded killer Lana Skye at all costs.

The security guard almost seems scared to interrupt her thoughts a third time, and she realizes he is still waiting on her to exit her holding cell. She really hasn't a choice in the matter, after all… and it would be best to get this over with as quick as she can. With luck, this interrogation would be as quick and trivial as ripping off a bandage—a bandage placed on a wound far too numb and hardened to acknowledge neither pain nor salvation.

She stands, allowing herself a moment to correct the expression on her face; she'll have to be cold, unforgiving… cruel.

The moment she steps into the visitor's area, a face that does not deserve her cruelty and betrayal greets her just the same.

Lana is immediately thankful for the glass between them, an invisible wall that promises unbreakable distance. Distance is her friend right now… a lesson she'd be regrettably wise to remember.

Her subordinate, Miles Edgeworth, sits there majestically stern—a literal sight for sore eyes, to be sure. After all she's been through today, seeing his face almost makes her feel a sudden wave of comfort, if only for a moment. It's then that she remembers where she is, and where they stand on opposite sides of the law. Unlike her, he doesn't belong here, a point she wants to immediately remind him of.

He looks the way he always does, polished and composed—although, Lana notices his shoulders look far too heavy and stiff, and his eyes seem a bit more…

Tired? Confused? Angry? He obviously has no intentions of hiding whatever the source of his disapproval.

She's seen many times before the way he's made defendants crack on the witness stand. That's the way he's looking at her now, as if for a brief moment, he's forgotten she's more than just a guilty verdict waiting to be passed. Or maybe... that _is_ all she is to him right now. His eyes are sharp and judgmental, so different from the last time she saw him; then, he was relaxed, satisfied... she dared to say _content_.

"Why… are you here?" she asks suddenly, the bitterness of her voice surprising them both.

Edgeworth is silent for a moment, his eyes now unfixed on her in fluctuating confidence. "I would like to ask you the same," he starts, gently, "but I can only assume this was not your intention. To be here… I mean."

She has picked a spot now, a reference point for her eyes to focus on when she feels herself slipping. Right now, it's one of Edgeworth's matte waistcoat buttons. She watches it rise and fall with the swell of his breathing. "No, I… I didn't _plan_ to be here."

"I suppose not. After all, it should be _me_ here in your place. Is that what you mean to say?"

Lana chews on the inside of her lip, painfully, gathering her thoughts until she begins to taste warm copper. There is no way he can know anything relating to the truth, and there is no way he can be let inside her; not _this_ time. Perhaps silence is the most effective answer she has.

He's still watching her, his face a mixture of emotions as he tries to proceed; he is clearly not used to this particular type of questioning. "Why didn't you come to me? For help, for guidance? For… God, Lana, _anything_ but this…" He gestures spontaneously to acknowledge her location on the other side of the glass. She is very much aware of her position _without_ him having to remind her.

"Miles, you despise crime… surely you're not telling me that you would have helped me dispose of a body, had I called you right away?" She shakes her head dismissively. "I know you better than that."

"O-of course not," he says, in strict confirmation, "but the least you could have done was told me that you—were in this predicament…"

His words fall slowly, uncharacteristically, along with his face. Lana tries hard to keep hers stone.

 _"Believe me_ ," she wants to tell him, _"there is so much I would_ love _to share with you..."_

Instead, she looks away. "You should be glad I didn't bring you into this… it would have only looked worse on you if you were truly aware, wouldn't it?"

Lana knows it doesn't make sense—and Edgeworth is the furthest thing from a fool there is. No one frames another for a crime, and then takes the blame for themselves when the evidence clearly shows otherwise. That particular choice was her own... regardless of her mistake, and unbeknownst to Chief Gant, she had no intentions of letting Miles take her fall from the very beginning.

"But yet I hear that you're already pleading guilty."

He looks to her again, this time his eyes almost pleading with her. She can't remember when he'd started looking at her so fully like this, so unguarded and honest. Almost half a year ago, maybe? The thought of him opening up to her only makes her hate herself further. She can see him now for what he truly is, the way his eyes are close to betraying him, to revealing the pain within. Does he want to see her pain, too…? Does he think he can _save_ her? Lana can see the last sliver of hope in the way that he studies her, wanting to hear something that will assure him of… well, whatever it is, she isn't sure.

He appears to be struggling, trying to choose between his loyalty for justice—for the truth—and his loyalty for... well, _her_. It appears that his eyes have also found a piece of her to focus on; he's suddenly eyeing her scarf, almost suspiciously. Lana wonders if maybe he's realized it's not her usual red scarf, but a different one...

Like her, he's clearly suffering beneath his stoic exterior, and Lana can see this clearer than she can see her own damnable future. She wants to drop this act immediately and smile at him warmly, much like the way she does when they're alone, a time when words no longer exist and their mouths are busy doing other things that only closed doors have witnessed.

Forcing herself, once again, into a blank approach of indifference, she locks eyes with his. Much like his buttons, they are dark and vacant. "You have every right to be angry with me. I apologize about the car."

Edgeworth opens his mouth to speak, but closes it just as quickly in an awkward attempt to hide his disbelief. "This… it's not about the... the—Lana, _why_?" he asks harshly. "Why do you insist on acting like…? I simply... cannot understand…"

"What is there to understand?" she demands. Her cold stare is fixed on him like a radar, and so far, she feels that this performance is painfully believable. She has Miles stuttering, dumbfounded and confused with even his own thoughts. She can hear Chief Gant clapping for her proudly in her mind, even now. She has almost fooled herself, even, that these are truly her own, poisonous words coming from her mouth.

Almost.

"After all this time, I thought you were looking out for me," he admits, and she wonders if he means to change the subject in this direction on purpose. "Though I _am_ used to it, you know I hate being at the center of all this gossip—and though foolish, I… secretly hoped you saw me as much more than a potential…" He stops himself, seemingly grasping for a more appropriate word to snag and hold onto. "…scapegoat."

Lana turns her head to stare at the wall. Looking at him is only making it more difficult to breathe. "Miles, your car was the closest, easiest solution to my problem. I assure you it was not meant to be… _personal_."

Even through the thick glass between them, she hears his hands drop loudly onto his knees. "And, what exactly, do _you_ consider personal, I might ask?"

Something about the way he's looking at her gives her a sudden rush of boldness, and she takes it as an opportunity to strike. "Is that why you came here, to speak with me…? To ask me why I did it? And why I unknowingly dragged you into it, as well? Well, I have your answer, and it is simply that—as I said—the fact that it was your car was inconsequential. It was there, and it was an open possibility. That is all… Miles."

Unsurprisingly, he does little to back down, much to her discontent. " _Unknowingly_ , you say? Even still, it's not as if you didn't know that car was mine, as you've been in it before—several times, if my recent memory serves. Again, I say you chose it _because_ it was mine, didn't you?"

Lana can feel her body trembling, shaking with every word. She reminds herself that he has every right to feel this way… he has every right to hate her. Everything he's said is too true, too on point, much like he always is. As his boss, she knows exactly how effective he is at his job, and how far he will go to draw out the truth; she is no exception.

This isn't the first time he has been betrayed... of course, she knows about that all too well, the stories gifted to her by the very man himself. They were words she held in her heart much like a trophy, proud to have been entrusted with secrets he claims to have never told another. She believes him, of course... Miles Edgeworth is known for many things, but personal story-telling isn't one of them.

She fears that if she speaks, her emotions might all gush out at once; she knows she cannot give herself away under any circumstances. There is too much at stake for that. There are _lives_ on the line, one young life in particular that Lana has already sold her own life for long ago... and clearly, now, she's doing it again.

"Your silence is deafening, Lana," he says, sadly now, his eyes cast downwards. His anger seems to have subsided, if only a little. "Perhaps it's a waste, but I suppose I actually came here to ask you something more."

 _No_ , she begs, _please_. _No more words. No more questions_. She wishes he would leave, and take his memories and sadness with him. She has enough of her own here, in her own little personal hell, to keep her plenty company.

"Yes?" comes her reply, firm and business-like. It is sure to crush him. "Do you want to hear it again, the confession straight from my lips?" His forehead wrinkles slightly, a warning. Ignoring it, she looks him directly in the eyes as she exaggerates her words. "I stabbed the victim, Detective Bruce Goodman, in the trunk of your car at 5:15 PM."

There is an awkward silence now, a barrier between them Edgeworth had clearly not anticipated. She notices him shift his eyes modestly to the security camera behind her.

"This is… I feel ridiculous," he scoffs, tapping a finger nervously against his temple. "I see now that I've been the fool all the while, a witless marionette in this scripted little masquerade of yours, dangling from invisible strings connected to… your fingers, I suppose. You, the apparent puppet-master of prosecutors… as you want me to believe."

She quickly turns away from him. Does he somehow suspect what this is all about? The way he says it, as if he himself does not believe a word of it... She could do many things to deter him from the truth, but should he confront Chief Gant...

Fear courses through her. The thought of Miles being the next unknowing victim makes her eyes well up with inconvenient tears. Perhaps she's only being paranoid, but surely he's smart enough to know better than to go to Gant with any questions, especially now...

"Lana, I… I can't help you if you won't tell me the truth," he begs her, his voice now more persistent. She can feel his eyes searching her back, searching her for answers as if it was possible to see the lies and secrets she holds inside her. "You have the right to establish your defense in this case, as well as... perhaps a plea bargain, that will work in favor of your defense, or rather—"

"I don't recall asking for your legal counsel—nor do I recall asking for your _help_."

Short. Succinct. To the _point_. Lana feels like she's swallowed a fistful of broken glass. Every shard courses in deep pulses through her veins.

She doesn't expect to hear him sigh, a pained breath that she's surprised she hears at all.

"…I've told you everything," he says, a mumble at most. "I've told you in confidence about my father, my past, my fears… I've given you my trust, my secrets…" He crosses his arms over his chest, self-consciously, eyes closed tight. "You're aware I've given you many things I simply cannot take back."

He's right. Lana knows a side of him that few have the pleasure of knowing; she's seen him perfectly vulnerable and exposed, as close as two people can be without being bound by promises or titles. She's witnessed personally the recurring nightmares that haunt him in his sleep, and she would gladly testify at the pain he suffers at the hand of his dreams, as well as the gentle way she holds him close until he is able to fight them away… she will never tell him she knows.

He has helped her, too, though probably unaware—he's helped her find a part of herself that she was forced to abandon after the events of SL-9, helped her slowly return to the way she was before. Somehow, her happiness and compassion come back naturally to her when he's around, something that Lana hadn't questioned until now.

"Enough," she calmly blurts, turning to face him in feigned anger. She knows she has to stop this once and for all before he truly breaks her. "You… you had a question for me. Was it relating to this case… to the murder?"

The word is ugly on its own, yet saying it in front of him leaves a disgusting, bitter aftertaste in her mouth. He, too, seems to be struggling with her words and the stance it forces her to take. For a moment, he'd forgotten all about the murder and thought only of her crimes against _him_.

"No," he shakes his head slowly. "It doesn't matter… I suppose I don't need to ask you anything more. Your actions, intentional or not, have shown me more than enough. I see it clearly now… it all meant _nothing_ to you, from the very beginning."

"I take the blame," she replies flatly, despite the objection pooling uncomfortably inside her. "As your superior, I should have known better."

Edgeworth continues gracefully despite her disregard. "I don't blame you completely, Lana. I take some responsibility in the fault that I temporarily misplaced where my brain was located these past few months, but I can promise you that will not be the case tomorrow... tomorrow, there will be no such _mistake_."

Lana's eyes perk up curiously, accidentally, without her usual deliberation. "Tomorrow?" she asks.

"If this nonsense is what you've truly chosen, this decision—this _testimony—_ then so be it. You are not the Lana Skye that I once knew… you're someone different today, regardless of who you've pretended to be in my presence these past two years. Although hard to accept, I've already made my decision."

"You mean…?"

"I _will_ be involved with this case, you should know. Be assured, however, I… will not let my personal judgment or predilections about you cloud my thoughts on the fate of your verdict." He catches her eyes with a sharp glare. "I suppose the evidence will do all that on its own."

She almost loses her façade as she resists the urge to smile at him, the words leaving her mouth in what normally would be a harmless joke between them, an attempt to tease him with his own self-earned reputation; instead it's mocking and empty: "I… I would expect nothing less from… the great Miles Edgeworth."

This apparently has meaning to him, his brows furrowing in annoyance once again. "I recall you've said that before… however, I can't help but notice the way your confidence in my abilities contradicts what you've done to me today."

They both know if the fallen "Cough-up Queen" hadn't witnessed Lana in the act, Edgeworth himself would likely be the one in this detention center. As if it were planned, from the beginning, for this unprecedented crime to be pinned on him…

In some regard, Lana is thankful for Angel's involvement. As much as she'd certainly hate to hear it, the former detective has saved one person she despises while in her vengeful pursuit of another she hates even more; it was apparently a sacrifice she was willing—maybe forced—to take in her own twisted path to justice. Lana knows she cannot change how Angel feels about her, and she's certain this will further seal her fate in court faster than Angel can cook up her testimony. Not only has Lana turned the prosecution against herself, but the decisive witness is against her all the same.

Edgeworth doesn't wait for her reply as he starts to stand. His eyes are unreadable, still fixed to the floor in a listless stare. "A word of advice... regardless of what it is you think you're hiding from me. Perhaps you should be more mindful of that—that _mark_ peeking out from under your scarf... I don't think the court wants to see the remnants of our recent night together anymore than I do." He purses his lips together, sadly. He gives her a final look, a look she recognizes as that of a man haunted by both shame and contempt. "Good night... Chief Prosecutor. I suppose I'll see you in court, then."

Lana reaches, involuntarily, for her neck, rubbing her fingers along the soft edges of her scarf; she tugs at it self-consciously. His tongue is sharp enough to make her drop her guard in spite of herself. When she looks back up to the glass, everything has gone too fast, and he is somehow already standing at the door with intentions of probably never returning.

 _"Look after Ema,"_ she desperately wants to shout after him before it's too late, or maybe, _"Keep your distance from Gant..."_

Instead, it's a soulless drawl that does not belong to the true Lana Skye inside: "Good luck... with your investigation."

She isn't sure either way whether or not he hears her final words. He doesn't turn to give her another look before he's already out the door, and he doesn't hesitate as it slams behind him.

Just like that, she realizes her memory feels hazy, and her mind is spinning... perhaps it's the stress, but the overwhelming feeling of being trapped suddenly returns to her like a self-inflicted slap. The handcuffs are tight on her wrists as the guard preempts her to move.

The rest is a blur.

He doesn't return, and she's escorted back to her holding cell in silence. Her security guard is solemn, almost uncomfortably so. For once, he doesn't seem scared of her; he's sympathetic. His head is bowed in shame, unsure of what to do with all the surreptitious information he's probably heard from this unexpected visit of theirs. Lana isn't sure who he pities more: her, or Miles.

When the lights go out and she's alone as she can possibly be, she reflects back on this horrible day that's turned her somewhat hopeful life upside down, sideways, and then shaken until it's disfigured and unrecognizable.

Lana is both physically and mentally exhausted. Unable to withstand any more, she lets the tears fall freely as she buries her face in her scarf, her pasted-on expression finally breaking from it's hardened, frozen visage. When she cries, she tells herself she's not thinking of Miles. She's not thinking of Ema, or Chief Gant; she's not thinking of all those she's deceived the past two years with her lies and her frigid detachment. She's not even thinking of her career, as she watches it crumble piece by piece in her mind, over and over again.

She's crying because of the monster she has become, the criminal she can't quite seal away. She's crying because she's now the accused, Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye, who stabbed the victim, Detective Bruce Goodman, in the car of a man who foolishly trusted her, at 5:15 PM.

There has never been an easier script to follow. Chief Gant had promised her this unexpectedly this afternoon. However, this time... he couldn't be more wrong.

And in return for her flawless performance, she will receive the ultimate reward: the pinnacle of all that she has become in her path to destruction and dishonor.

The safety and innocence of one Ema Skye.

And for that purpose alone, Lana will stick to her script: she alone is guilty of the cold-blooded murder of a detective—a former colleague—in the first degree.

* * *

 **A/N: I meant to post this here sooner, specifically on 2/21... AKA RFTA anniversary day, but you know, life. Hope you still enjoy now, exactly a week later!**


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